Dear and Glorious Physician (61 page)

In spite of precautions there was a group waiting on the mount’s summit, a few silent women, a young man or two in poor garments, and, to Priscus’ nameless anger, a few Pharisees and scribes whom he recognized. Drawing all his strength, Priscus rode up the last difficult stretch, and he said to the Pharisees in a husky voice, “What are you doing here, at a Roman execution of lowly criminals?”

One of them bowed haughtily and replied, “We are here as witnesses, for there is a stupid rumor that this turbulent wretch, Jesus, will not die, but will live and descend from the cross and lead the people into anarchy and uprising against the peace. We will tell the people, later, what we have witnessed, and that will be the end of it.”

Priscus did not know why he said in a loud voice, “No, it will not be the end of it! Never will it be the end!” And he struck his fist against his sword, and sweat rolled down his face.

The Pharisees frowned, and consulted with one another, and shrugged, and the scribes sneered. But Priscus, his breath loud in the fearful silence at the top of the mount, turned his attention to the women. However, he really saw only one, a slight woman of an age not to be determined, for her pale smooth face could have been the face of a girl or a mature woman, serene but rigid with sorrow. He thought to himself, Is she His sister, His wife, His mother? No, it is not possible that she is His Mother, for she has a look of eternal youth upon her, and she is very beautiful, more beautiful even than my adopted mother, Iris, or my sister, Aurelia. The woman gazed at him as if hearing his thoughts, turning the deep blueness of her eyes upon him; a lock or two of her hair, golden as sunlight, had escaped her dark blue head-cloth and blew upon her white forehead in a gust of searing wind. Her mouth was sweet and without color, and full of tenderness. But it was her stillness that impressed Priscus, the stillness of her youthful body, the stillness of her remarkable beauty. She was clothed in coarse white linen, and her shoulders flowed with a blue robe of the same material. Priscus wished to speak with her, for she had so noble an attitude and such an atmosphere of quiet grief. He did not know why he dismounted and went to her. She watched him coming, and the mournfulness of her face was turned upon him.

He tried to make his voice rough. “Who are you, and who are these with you?”

She said gently, “I am Mary, His Mother, and these are our friends.”

He wanted to order her below. He hesitated. She continued to regard him tranquilly, and her eyes pierced him. Her hands were clasped loosely together; two women stood beside her, like handmaidens of a queen. They wept, but she was not weeping. A profound dignity encompassed her. “You are His Mother,” said Priscus, lamely, and he thought of Iris, and the mother he had never known, and he was full of grief for all the mothers of the world.

Mary inclined her head; her blue eyes continued to implore him. He gestured uncertainly. “It will not be a pleasant sight for a woman,” he said.

“But I have known of this for a long time,” she replied. He stared at her, blinking. And then she smiled a little, and he thought again, incoherently, of the compassionate smile of Iris. How was it possible that this poor woman could feel pity for him, the Roman executioner of her Son? He wanted to speak more with her, but her eyes had left him for her Son, now reaching the summit, and a quiver, as of reflecting water, ran over her face, and she took a single step, her hands outstretched in the eternal attitude of a mother. The women put their arms about her and held her back. The colors of the streaming sky, its rose and purple, flowed upon their faces.

Priscus’ officers looked down in wonder at their dismounted officer, who had deigned to approach and to speak to a poor Jewish woman. They saw his miserable expression, his uncertainty, his despair-filled eyes, and wondered more, uneasily. The young officer muttered under his breath, his incantation against frightful events. The Pharisees and scribes stood apart, the Pharisees cold of aspect and unspeaking, the scribes sneering and snickering among themselves.

Then Priscus, looking at the silent prisoner standing near him, and seeing the drops of blood that ran down His speechless face from the thorns of the crown, and His absolute suffering, cried out, “Let us be done with the matter, in the name of the gods!” He turned aside with a disordered gesture and hesitated. “Where is wine and a goblet?” he said to one of his officers, who stared at him blankly for a moment, then reached into his saddle bag and brought forth a vessel of soldiers’ wine and a crude goblet. He dismounted to put them into Priscus’ trembling hands. “Opium also,” muttered Priscus, wishing to give the condemned man some numbness against his pain. Without speaking the officer sprinkled a little opium from a woolen packet onto the surface of the poured wine.

The dreadful and stupendous light increased, like a threatening glare from Olympus. Priscus approached the condemned man, and all on the mount fell silent, and the women ceased their weeping. Now Priscus stood before Jesus and looked fully into His face; his voice could not rise in his throat. The godlike eyes regarded him straightly, as if probing his very soul, and Priscus thought in awful bewilderment, Who is He?

“Drink,” he stammered. “It will help You — ”

But Jesus shook His head slightly; however, He inclined that head gratefully. And now the look He bent on Priscus was tender beyond all tendernesses he could imagine, and most grand, and most incredibly kind and gentle. Priscus fell back before that look, in greater terror and awe than before, until he stumbled against his horse. “Let it be consummated!” he cried out. “Let us be done with it!” And pressed his face against his horse’s neck, which was trembling.

Priscus clung to his horse, his eyes closed. From far below, like the sound of a dolorous sea, came the surge of wailings and lamentations. But above them — and Priscus could not bring himself to look — came the sound of hammering. Why was it so silent here? Why did not the condemned man cry out as the nails were driven into His flesh?

And then He spoke, in a loud voice: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they are doing!”

Priscus felt a horrible chill rippling over his flesh, and his horse started under his clutch. Is He imploring His God? Priscus asked himself, in the roaring confusion of his mind. Why should the gods forgive, and whom should they forgive? Me? The people? The executioners? What madness is this? Why should any man forgive his enemies, or implore the gods to do so, when he is suffering agonies and death is upon him?

The young soldier wished that darkness would descend upon him, and that he would faint and see nothing further. But the awful light pierced through his eyelids, and he lifted his head away from the horse’s neck and was compelled to see. The executioners had finished their work; the condemned man had been stripped naked, except for a loincloth. The men were beginning to raise the cross between the two thieves, against the frightful sky. The cross was larger than the others, and in contrast with the dark rough wood the body of the hanging man was white and smooth as alabaster, and appeared to shine. He seemed unaware of His anguish; His calm eyes surveyed the woman, His Mother, and He smiled lovingly, as if to console and reassure her. Then they left her and looked down at the restless throngs on the lower reaches of the mount, and then they swept over the city far below, its twisted yellowish walls bathed in that eerie light, its roofs and domes illuminated. He heaved a great and gusty sigh, and momentarily closed His eyes.

It was so fearfully silent here. Mary had seated herself upon a great rock, her face in her hands, her women kneeling beside her, comforting her. His friends, as poor as himself, clung together, their gaze never leaving the doomed man. They were young; they were obviously very poor; their small beards moved on their chins in the slightest of winds, and their faces streamed with tears.

The young officer, the centurion, touched Priscus’ shoulder apologetically. “The soldiers are awaiting your signal, noble Priscus,” he murmured. “As you know, the law permits them to divide the goods of those condemned to death.” Priscus looked at him distractedly, for everything was swimming before him. He made an abrupt gesture. The impatient soldiers divided the garments of Jesus, and complained among themselves that they were of such poor stuff, and that there was no money pouch or anything else of value. Discontentedly, and after yawning, they removed a little way and knelt and began to dice. It would be some time before they could leave; those crucified died so slowly; it was tedious. The women sat like statues. Then Priscus saw that over the head of the dying man a script had been nailed, and on it was written in Greek and Roman and Hebrew letters:

“This is the King of the Jews!”

A crash of stunning anger thrust itself against Priscus’ heart at this mockery. Clenching his fists, he forced himself to approach the cross, and he looked up at the hanging man. His lips shook. He tried to speak. The mysterious eyes gazed down at him with a blue smile that contained both agony and compassion. Priscus put his hand against the lower part of the cross, and he was filled with a desire to break down and weep. He turned aside and saw that his hand was bloodstained, and he stared at the shining scarlet, stupefied. Like the loud clicking of dead bones, he could hear the dicing of the soldiers and the excitement of their betting.

A group of the scribes and Pharisees approached the cross also. One of the Pharisees looked up at the dying man, and said sternly, “He saved others! Let Him save Himself if He is the Christ, the Chosen One of God!”

The attention of the betting soldiers was attracted by his voice, and they burst out laughing. One of them, a very young man, came to the cross, a goblet of wine in his hand. His grin was uncertain, not unkind, but rather stupid. He held up the cup to Jesus and said, almost in a friendly manner, “If You are indeed the King of the Jews, save Yourself!”

But the dying man did not speak. A pale glaze had come over His eyes; He appeared to have sunk into some bottomless contemplation.

One of the thieves groaned terribly. He turned his shaggy and tortured head to Jesus, and his clumsy features were distorted. He tried to spit on that heroic face, but his saliva fell into the dust and lay there glimmering.

He cried out, “If You are the Christ, save Yourself and us!” And he fell into a groan of derisive cursing.

Priscus moved convulsively; he wished to raise his sword and batter the lips of the thief. But before he could draw his sword the other thief said in a waning and rebuking voice, “Do not even you fear God, seeing that you are under the same sentence? And we indeed justly, for we are receiving what our deeds deserved. But this man has done nothing wrong!”

Priscus was transfixed; his hand fell from his sword. The second thief turned his head to Jesus, and his coarse features trembled, and tears seeped from his tormented eyes. His breast heaved, and his arms writhed on the cross. He sobbed aloud.

Then he said, humbly, “Lord, remember me when You come into Your kingdom.” And he strained towards Jesus as if his miserable soul were impelled by a tremendous force, and as if all his spirit were drawn to his companion.

Jesus did not seem to have heard for some moments. Then He raised His head from the piercing contemplation of the city below, and the weeping throngs, and spoke. His voice was still strong, still clear, and still gentle. He gazed at the second thief with unearthly compassion, and He smiled. “Amen, I say to you, this day you shall be with Me in Paradise!”

Again He looked at His Mother, and again a light ran over His ghastly countenance, on which the blood rolled like rubies. As if she had heard a command, she lifted her fallen head, and Mother and Son regarded each other as if they communed together in speech not to be heard by any man. Priscus watched them, and his heart stammered in fear and with a curious longing.

Uncounted time passed. Priscus had fallen into a dreamlike state. He thought that he had always stood like this, his head against the neck of his horse, his sickness always in him. He thought that he had never known anything else in all his life but the glimmer of the light on the soldiers’ helmets as they knelt and played, and their flashing hands, and the illumination dancing on their armor. Forever he had seen those boiling colored clouds, like steam, ascending the white-hot sky. And forever his sight had been fixed on those three crosses, and forever he had contemplated that white Figure against the dark wood, the tendons strained and pulsing, the feet white as snow. He was frozen into eternity, and never would he leave this place and never would he know anything else!

The young men, the friends of Jesus, had crept to the cross, and had fallen against it, as if struck by lightning, their postures abandoned in the immobility of grief, their heads leaning against the wood. And the women sat apart; Mary gazed before her, as if looking into the ages, her noble head rising from among her women.

The young centurion approached Priscus again. He was very pale. He muttered, “Priscus, I do not like this! There is something awful here.”

Priscus wet his feverish lips. “Give me wine,” he said. The centurion gave him wine, pouring carefully. But his eyes stared in affright at the sky. Priscus took the cup from him and drank deeply; it was poor and acrid wine, and it sickened him. He poured the rest of it on the ground, and shivered.

It was the sixth hour. The appalling light pulsed out more blindingly than before, as if gathering itself together for a huge conflagration. Priscus passed his hands over his face; they encountered streams of water. The two thieves, having been crucified earlier, were falling into the unconsciousness of death. But Jesus still regarded the city and the other mounts as if thinking, and as if unaware that He was dying.

Then the light was gone. It was gone as completely as if midnight had settled on the earth. The kneeling and betting soldiers jumped to their feet with a terrified cry. The centurion, with renewed terror, gripped Priscus’ shoulder, seeking protection. From the throngs below came a mighty moan. At that instant the ground rose like a ship on a gigantic wave, and shuddered, and a sound like thunder struck the darkness. The earth wallowed and lurched, and from somewhere came a vast groaning, at once from the world and the sky.

“It is true, it is true!” cried Priscus, but he did not know what he meant. He gripped his horse’s neck, steadying himself. A dim thought came to him that he should reassure his men, but his legs were swaying under him.

Then all the air was pervaded by a mighty voice, ringing, strong, and full of exultation:

“Father, into Your hands I commend My Spirit!”

The darkness deepened; the soldiers stammered incoherently together. The Pharisees and the scribes retreated backwards down the hill, mouthing silently and grasping at each other’s arms. But Priscus looked at the middle cross with desolate eyes. The Figure upon it was the only light in the dreadful dusk, and it was like white fire, and appeared to stretch and reach to the very sky far above the mount. The slipping earth, tremulous and heaving, settled, and was still.

Priscus heard his young officer, the centurion, speaking in a dim and shaking voice, “Truly, this was a just man!” And he fell to his knees, then prostrated himself, and the other soldiers, equally stunned, fell also about him, imploring their gods for help and rescue.

An immense nausea overwhelmed Priscus. He pulled himself away from his horse and with weak steps approached the middle cross and its shining Figure. Jesus was dead; His head lay on His breast. The drops of blood dripped blackly on His flesh in that deep gloom. Priscus looked down at the silent figures of the friends of Jesus; his head ached with a bursting pain. Then again he leaned his hand on the cross, and now he wept.

Lucanus bent closer to his brother, holding his pulsing cold hand. He had not been conscious of time. The lamplight glowed steadily on Priscus’ wan face, on which streams of sweat were flowing. A long time had passed. Priscus closed his dim eyes, and there was a silence. Lucanus looked about him like a man dreaming. Neither he nor Priscus had been aware that servants had stolen into the bedchamber to announce dinner. They did not know that finally Plotius had come, in alarm, then seeing the two with their heads together, and then hearing that Priscus was speaking and would not be halted, he had gone away, frowning and pulling at his lips.